


Alive

by RedTeamShark



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - York Survives, Betrayal, Eye Trauma (implied), Gen, Gun Violence, Revenge, Scars, sanity slippage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:06:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11976969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: Time seems to stop as she looks into the familiar face, before an equally familiar helmet covers it.“York…” Carolina whispers, reaching a hand towards him slowly, unsure.“Not anymore,” he answers back as he hefts his assault rifle, points it towards her, “you can call me Foxtrot now… and hand over your AI.”





	Alive

**Author's Note:**

> The "York Survives" AU that absolutely no one saw coming.

The soft hum of the recovery ward around him and York realizes that he’s drifted into sleep again. He squeezes his hand, frowns a little to find it empty, but doesn’t want to open his eyes yet. Instead he moves blindly, searches for Carolina’s grip. She’s been in here for days and he hasn’t left her side, slept hunched over her bed just waiting for her to wake up…

His chest hurts, though. That isn’t right. York cracks his one good eye open, staring at the white ceiling above him. None of this is right.

 _That damn left side…_ he realizes, memories flashing into his mind. Gunfire and shouting voices and the one right in his ear, right in his _head_ that was supposed to be watching his left.

 _York will not survive._ Delta’s voice echoing across the plains of unconsciousness… but Delta had been wrong, Delta had drawn the wrong conclusion, unless Hell looked like a civilian hospital (wouldn’t surprise him too much, actually).

 _Delta?_ He questions, casting about in his mind for the presence, the voice of his AI, his assistant and companion and the closest thing he had left to a friend. _…Delta? Are you there? D, c’mon, this isn’t a joke._ He knows already, supposes he’s known since he swam up from the depths of unconsciousness.

Delta is gone.

* * *

The pretty nurse asks him his name and York smiles disarmingly, looks her in her eyes (blue not green so he’s okay, he’s okay with lying to blue eyes and smiling while he does it) and tells her that he doesn’t remember. She asks how he got hurt and he frowns in concern, returns with a questioning how he ended up in the hospital.

The doctor isn’t quite as pretty as the nurse (a little too tired for that, he thinks, well aware that he’s probably not looking his best either), but her eyes are gray and the line of concern between her brows doesn’t quite mask the excitement in her eyes.

“I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, sir,” the woman–name badge reads ‘Grey’ and York kind of likes it–tells him, “I don’t believe that you lost your memory.”

He likes that quite a bit less, casts his gaze down and tries for the kind of scared tone that will make her believe him. “I really can’t remember much of anything before waking up in this hospital… wherever I even am.”

“So you don’t know how you got those shiny neural implants?” She presses, eyes darting from him to the chart in her hands. “Don’t remember why you might have a slot in your skull for some sort of heavy-duty addition?”

“No. Why would I lie about that?” He punches his fist against the stiff hospital sheets, puts all the useless frustration and confusion he can into the gesture. “If I could remember anything, I’d tell you.”

The doctor sighs, disappointed, beckons the nurse to follow her and heads into the hall. York looks down at the IV in his arm, glances at the shut door, and slowly leans back on the pillows.

_Well. Can’t stay in the hospital. What do you think, D? Jump out the window or sneak out the door?_

He’s still not used to the silence that answers his interior questions, still spends too long waiting for a second voice to pipe up.

_Right, clothes. See, this is why you’re the smart one and I’m the handsome one. I must not have my armor, they’d ask a lot more questions if I did… which means we’re going stealing. Watch my left, okay?_

Still nothing, still radio silence inside his skull. York pushes himself up on the bed, groans and slowly surveys himself. Bandaged injuries on his chest but not much else to report. He pulls back the bandages slightly, winces at the scars. Gunshot wounds, right, Wyoming. At least they’ve been competently taken care of. Shouldn’t be a hinderance to his plan.

He’s careful about removing the IV and the other needles and wires hooked to him, careful to remove the heart monitor last. He’s not going to have long between taking it off and someone coming down to see if he’s dead, not if the hospital is any good. If luck is on his side then he’ll be able to slip out the window and be out of sight before anyone enters the room.

The last obstacle, of course, _is_ the window. If he’s more than two stories up he’s pretty much fucked–jumping off stuff isn’t exactly his strong suit and without the armor… well, it’s a lot more likely to end with him as a misshapen puddle of shattered bone and punctured organ. Maybe what he deserves, but ‘suicide by misadventure’ doesn’t sound like his kind of epitaph (actually, he reflects, it kinda does–he just doesn’t want it to right now).

Six floors up, he counts as he looks at the wing across the small courtyard. Well, shit. A glance down, however, reveals that the building intrudes further onto the courtyard two floors below him. He can make that jump safely enough if he lands it right, but where to go from there? A jump from the fourth floor isn’t something he wants to bet his life on, isn’t quite as survivable as a jump from the third. Maybe there’s another landing? Or an open window he can sneak in and sneak down the stairs from.

That still leaves the problem of clothes, though, the fact that he’ll be a guy running around in some scratchy hospital-issue boxers and nothing else. Sure, big cities are full of weirdos who wear weird things, but he’ll stand out.

 _Really wishing I had my armor about now…_ York thinks, sighing and pushing the window open. He’s going to have to hope for an open window on the fourth floor and hope even harder for some clothes that he can steal. Stealing from someone in the hospital is probably up near the top of the List of Things That’ll Make You an Asshole, but there isn’t a lot of recourse.

York holds his breath for a moment, before yanking the last wire that connects him to the heart monitor. He doesn’t wait for it to fade into the monotonous sound of the flatline, instead pushing himself from the window, tucking and rolling with the impact below. Pain jolts through every bone and muscle and makes the recovering wounds on his chest sing and the old scar over his eye throb, but he shakes it off as quickly as possible, gets low and close to the building and begins feeling windows for an opening.

Luck is on his side in more ways than one, an open window to an empty room… and more importantly, a set of clothing hanging in the open closet, jeans and a t-shirt. He shrugs into them without a second thought, nearly swimming in the large material. No belt, of course, he’s never _that_ lucky, but quick thinking has him ripping part of the thin hospital sheet, tying it through the belt loops to keep the jeans from falling to his ankles. The fabric is pooled loosely around his feet, disguising his lack of shoes… with any luck he’ll be able to stroll right out the front door.

A nurse stops him before he even gets to the elevator.

“Sir, do you have your visitors badge?” She questions, approaching him slowly, setting a gentle hand on his wrist. “I’m sorry to bother, but even here we have to follow protocols.”

“Oh…” He fumbles, sees the look in her eyes, that verge of pity for him. Glances up the ward past her and mentally sighs with relief. It doesn’t say it on the wall, but he recognizes this–terminal illness, long term. He feels like shit for it, but he can use it. “Shit, I-I’m sorry… I musta left it in the car… been sleeping out there, so that I can be with him every available minute… Sorry, I just…” He runs a hand against his face, dropping his gaze. “It’s been a really long week.”

Her eyes soften, her fingertips light and cool on his skin. “It’s okay, sir. If you go down and get the badge right now, I won’t say anything. I hope that… that things turn around.” She turns away and walks off on soft-soled shoes and York fights the urge to run for the elevator. Instead he makes his steps plodding, a broken down man visiting a dying loved one, devoting every second to that ill individual.

Well, he _would_ pick a dying man to steal clothes from. Wow, he’s an asshole.

* * *

_May as well begin at the end, huh, Delta?_ York’s lips curl into a brief smile, his eyes scanning the map posted at the bus stop. _Looks like we can get to the shore… and the place Wyoming was hiding out should be… here. What do you think, are the odds in my favor that my armor hasn’t entered recovery yet?_

_…Quiet today, aren’t you, D?_

“Pardon?” The man under the bus shelter raises a dark eyebrow, leaning around the covering to look at him.

York frowns, shaking his head quickly and stepping under the shelter and out of the lightly misting rain. “Nothing, nothing. Do you know what the next bus to head to the coast is?”

“Why visit the beach on a day like today? It should be here in fifteen minutes.” The man turns away as York passes by him and moves to lean back against the shelter. He lets his eyes slip closed, trying to even his breathing so the ache in his chest will stop.

_Damn healing unit never worked, you know that. Best it was good for was numbing the pain so I could keep fighting. But you tried, D… that’s what’s important._

The guy under the shelter stands abruptly, giving him another distrustful glance before shuffling away into the rain. “Man, what’s his problem?” York mumbles, turning as the hissing bus approaches. He still feels like an asshole for taking the guy’s wallet, would have only taken the money he might need and returned it if the dude hadn’t disappeared… now he supposes he’ll have to take the time to mail it to him.

Still, there are worse things that can happen in a day.

Things like being shot at as he steals a boat, hoping that maybe whoever owns it didn’t get a good enough look at his face to call the cops. He doesn’t need police chasing him, not right now… once he has his armor and his guns back he can deal with it (as much as he doesn’t want to), but until then…

It’s eerily quiet as he approaches the island fortress, easing the boat up to the docks on currents alone. Eerily quiet and feeling empty.

“Delta, assessment.” He commands, voice echoing off the rocks, answered only by the cry of a single gull. York’s teeth grit together, his head turning as he scans the area with his good eye. He can’t even fucking run in these pants. “Quit screwin’ around, D. I need you to watch my left, so tell me what you think is–

“…Oh, right.” His shoulders slump in defeat, head lowering. “You’re not here right now. And I’m talking to myself.”

Probably better if he doesn’t do that, the brunette decides, rolling up the legs of his oversized jeans in case he needs to move quickly. He treads carefully up to the fortress, on the alert for enemy activity… not that there’s much that can be done.

The place has an air of abandon to it, a feeling like no one has been there in a long time, but there’s still the echo of bullets in his head as he treks slowly and easily along the upper walkways. Still the ache in his chest from the bullets that penetrated his armor and skin and almost killed him. Probably _should_ have killed him, come to think of it.

His footsteps stop as he spots a familiar corner, breath stuttering in his throat. He knows that spot, it was the last thing he saw before he lost consciousness and that means that–

York’s running before he knows it, bare feet pounding across old stone, unmindful of discomfort. He drops to his knees as he rounds the corner, chokes on a cry of frustration and anger.

Where his armor should be, his guns and his ammo and _Delta_ , where his _life_ should be is nothing more than a blackened smudge against the stone. His armor has already entered recovery and someone’s been sent after it, he knows the protocols.

His armor is gone, stripped of useful enhancements and blown up.

Delta is gone too. Destroyed to protect Freelancer.

“Sorry, old chap.” The voice behind him makes York jump, turn as quickly as he can and scramble backwards. He looks down the bore of Wyoming’s sniper rifle, holding his breath against the bullet that’s about to put him out of his misery. “No hard feelings, hm? Duty calls and all that. We all think we’re doing the right thing at the time.”

“Wyoming… what happened?”

“Saved your life after our girl Tex took off to rescue her sim troopers. Sort of a complex story.”

“I’ve got time.” York slowly climbs to his feet, keeping his hands up just in case Wyoming’s trigger finger gets itchy.

“Well, it’s also sort of boring. There are better things for you to do.” The sniper rifle moves off him, the white-armored soldier turning to look towards the horizon. “Foxtrot-12, weren’t you? In Recovery, that is.”

“So you knew about that?”

“You find out all sorts of things when you go through someone’s logs. I won’t hold your personal information against you–rather too cold, I think. So you’re aware what happened to your armor and enhancements?”

“Enhancements stripped, armor destroyed. It’s protocol even outside of Recovery, Wyoming.” Talking to him is maddening, York decides. So many questions and it’s so hard to tell if they’re rhetorical or if Wyoming wants an answer.

“Yes, yes. And your AI taken away, can’t forget that. Do you know who else was in Recovery?” Wyoming holds up a hand before he can answer, chuckling slightly. “Of course not, they don’t tell you that just in case. But well, after I dropped you at the hospital, I decided to stick around until your beacon went off, see if it would be worth it to eliminate the agent sent to destroy your evidence. And you’ll never _believe_ who it was.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you once threw a locker at me instead of firing a gun at me. Now, do you want to guess?”

York sighs. “Just tell me.”

“Our dear friend Agent Washington. Very surprising, I know.”

“Wash? But I thought that he was… after the Epsilon incident didn’t they transfer him to…” York’s at a loss for words, his jaw moving soundlessly before falling slack.

“Insane, perhaps. But still has the luck of the devil himself. Got your healing unit… and your little green assistant.”

That makes his breath stop again, his eyes widening. “Delta? He took Delta?”

“Yes, it would seem that way. Moved him to a storage unit, as far as I could tell, shortly before detonating your armor… You know, I could possibly… assist you in getting a new set of armor, if you’re willing to do something for me. I suppose we’re not on the best of terms, but we _are_ currently even on not quite killing each other.” Wyoming hums thoughtfully, looking him up and down. “Your current attire isn’t very fitting of a soldier, is it?”

York sighs, slowly dropping his gaze. “What do you have in mind?”

When he hears Wyoming’s plan, however, it’s all he can do not to laugh. Chase down the man that stole his AI from him? That’s not a favor for Wyoming… that’s practically a gift for himself.

* * *

The first and only time he sees Delta is as South is running away with him. He hears gunfire, hears the low shout of agony in answer. Approaches in time to see South jumping into the seat of an unfamiliar ship. York scans the land before him quickly, fighting down the urge to raise his gun and take her out. There’s something else going on here and acting too hastily won’t help.

 _Damn right it won’t, Delta, but thanks for the input_. Communicating inside his head (and occasionally out loud, but he prefers not to think about that) with the missing AI is a regular thing, second nature to him. If not for the jarring silence that answers his thoughts, he’d half-believe Delta to still be there.

The huge form of Agent Maine that appears over Wash–Wash on the ground, Wash bleeding and groaning in pain, maybe dying–makes him take a step back. Recovery Command said that Maine went nuts, started stealing AIs… said that Maine killed Carolina for Eta and Iota.

York moves forward before he has time to second guess the action, raises his rifle and opens fire. He hasn’t had time to line up the shot and Delta isn’t there to manipulate his armor and compensate his aim, so the first shots go wild. They’re enough to put Maine on the defensive, though, to send him backwards as York approaches.

When he stops to load in a fresh clip, the huge Freelancer turns on him, growls and approaches. York takes a slow inward breath, winces as the old scars from the gunshots ache. He aims more carefully this time, centering his sights on Maine’s shining gold faceplate.

“This is for Carolina.” He whispers, opening fire, crying out in surprise and disappointment when a bubble shield throws itself up over Maine, deflects his bullets and sends him ducking for cover. York snarls in frustration, his revenge cut short, suddenly on the defensive. There’s little doubt in his mind that whatever it is that used to be Agent Maine is going to come after him, and soon.

It’s a surprise, therefore, when that doesn’t happen. When the huge armored form instead turns its attention back to Washington. Rips into his armor and removes two chips, hastily implants both units into its own. If York remembers right, one of them is Wash’s short-range EMP… the other, he realizes, must be his own healing unit.

 _Bastards, all of them… and don’t start lecturing me about word etymology and parentage, D, it’s not a good time_. York has two options, run and hope that Maine doesn’t follow or stay for a fight that will likely end with him being ground into a fine paste in the dirt… Surviving seems smarter, and–well, so what if he doesn’t get to be the one to kill Wash. At least the job will be done. If Maine’s going after AI and enhancements like the reports from Recovery said, it’s not like he’ll be chasing after York anyways.

Besides, his new target is Agent South Dakota… The blonde bitch thinks she can run off and keep Delta from him… well, he’ll have to show her what a bad idea _that_ is.

York fights in a laugh, smile twitching on his lips under the helmet as he hurries away before Maine can follow him. Let Wash get mauled to death, he doesn’t need to watch. It’d be fun, but finding South before she gets too far away is infinitely more important.

* * *

“ _Come on, Carolina, have fun, Carolina… you’re always being such a bitch…_ ” He sings under his breath as he showers, the stupidly persistent song that just won’t get off his radio. It’s not even a good song, but it has a way of worming into his head and sticking around for hours or days and–

York slams his fist into the wall, trying to get the repeating melody out of his head. He’s got a call from Control coming soon, or at least he hopes there is. Killing the people giving him money and sending him all over the galaxy won’t help his situation, but if they keep starving him for work he might not have a lot of options.

Before he has to spend too much time plotting murder, however, the call is patching through his radio. As crackly and staticy as ever, Control’s voice as hard to distinguish as always.

 _How many layers of voice filter you think they use, D? Four? Sounds like four, but that’s just a guess_.

“We have a job for you.”

“About damn time.” York towels off quickly, suiting up as the information is transferred to his HUD. “Small, shitty, war-torn planet again, huh? What’s the target?”

“Primary objective is alien technology left on the planet following the Great War. Secondary motivation is technologies linked to Project Freelancer. You are welcome to collect what you can of the extras, but be certain to secure your specific objectives.” The information scrolls quickly and York frowns slightly, moving over to his monitor and displaying it there.

“Looks like you’re sending me into a war zone.”

“The current status of Chorus is unimportant to your mission.”

“No, I think that ‘by the way you’re going to be landing in the middle of a civil war’ is kind of fucking important.”

“If you do not want the job–”

“Never said that. I just said that trying to hide that fact from me isn’t smart. Delta, run an analysis of it, find me a safe LZ and–” He stops, realizing that he’s spoken out loud to the voice that’s no longer in his head. Well, shit.

“Is there someone with you? An assistant you have previously neglected to mention?”

“Just a computer program.” York keeps his voice from shaking, but just barely. He clears the monitor, sitting back and taking a deep breath. “I’ll move out as soon as possible and radio when I’ve reached the target. Standard silence until the job is done.”

“Very well. Secure the desired assets for the standard rate, but there is a bonus waiting for anything extra you can get your hands on.

“Control out.”

Radio silence as York pulls off his helmet and slowly rubs his fingers against his temple. He hasn’t spoken out loud to Delta in front of anyone in months, maybe a year… And if Control thinks that he’s unstable, they’ll pull him from receiving jobs. “Gotta keep it together… I’m not crazy. I’m a perfectly well-adjusted individual…” Saying it out loud, whispering it harshly to himself in an empty apartment, isn’t exactly the most convincing argument he’s ever heard.

No time to dwell on it, though. He has alien technology to secure on a war-torn planet named Chorus. If nothing else, the planet’s far enough away that _Come On, Carolina_ probably hasn’t yet reached it.

* * *

“Fucking hell.” York observes with an interior smile as sweat immediately begins to pool between the tight kevlar bodysuit and his skin. His armor picks up the sharp temperature and humidity changes and starts compensating immediately, slowly cooling him down. His hair’s already a mess, though, he knows, feeling it plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck. “Alright, D, let’s get to work.” He has all the information already filed away in his brain, the targets and the extra incentives. The part of Chorus he’s landed in is relatively quiet, free of both the Federal Army of Chorus and the New Republic. Free of just about _everything_ except for heat and humidity, really.

The hike to civilization is a long one, but it’s also a good time to think, to go over his plans again and again and ask Delta for input. He cloaks his ship without a second thought, tucking the small device into a pocket at the back of his armor. His mind is already miles away, the technologies that he’s after. And if there’s really Freelancer tech around…

 _Don’t get your hopes up. Delta’s long gone and why would Wash or South ever come here?_ But he can’t help but wonder about it. _Would_ the thieving bastards who took his AI come here? Probably not… who knows what they did after the war, if they’re still alive…

_I know, Delta, I know. Probability isn’t in my favor. Thanks, buddy._

The trudge through the thick jungle isn’t too bad, though, the exercise a welcome change from running through the city. Sure, the daily routines there aren’t too bad, but they also aren’t the sort of thing that keeps him in top form for his usual line of work. And why is he even dwelling on that sort of stuff?

Well, because there isn’t a lot else to think about. It’s green and brown around him, occasionally broken up by bright flowers. There’s the drowsy hum of insects in the bushes and the occasional sound of a bird or larger predator with no accompanying visual but nothing has come up as an active threat yet. There’s nothing that requires his attention in the dense jungle, no movements on his radar.

York slows as he approaches a clearing of the trees, takes a deep breath and holds it. The landscape just beyond the screen of trees is vastly different, indented slightly from the thick forest, some roots and branches holding tenuously to the edges. It’s an impact crater, he realizes, and an old one. Whatever hit hasn’t allowed the jungle to regain its foothold, has left scattered rocks and turning sands.

He eases out of the jungle with his assault rifle at the ready, though this place looks just as abandoned as the trees he trekked through. There’s less cover below than behind and for a moment he considers skirting around. Instead he pulls up the map of Chorus loaded into his HUD, finds his current location (the impact crater isn’t on the map–interesting divergence) and the location of his nearest target. Skirting the site is going to add at least a day to his journey.

“Well, son of a bitch…” York whispers, slowly easing his way down the sharp face of the cliff, leaving behind the trees and the cover with them. He’s a sitting duck if anyone spots him now, a target practically painted on his back. Both sides would likely think him a mercenary for the other, both would likely shoot first and not ask any questions at all.

His trip to the bottom of the crater is uneventful, however, boots landing solidly on the ground, gaze moving around the area. It’s still quiet, even quieter than the jungle above him, not a hint of movement among the rocks and dirt. York switches his rifle for his handgun, following the weaving path between the rocks. With any luck he’ll pass right through and be that much closer to his target. Though, the lack of information about this place isn’t easing his nerves.

 _D, I want you to run an analysis on this crater… if it even is a crater. Everything you can find out, okay, buddy? But keep an eye open while you do it, I can’t watch my left_.

He’s not expecting to come across anything like civilization, and expecting the patrol that he almost stumbles into even less. Two soldiers clad in Mark VI, orange and maroon colors standing out bright against the dull dirt of the crater. York hangs back, blends in as best as he can as they pass, catches a snippet of their conversation.

“…just glad Wash made Tucker start sleeping with pants on…”

And then they’re gone and everything he sees and feels is rage pinpointed on a single name.

Washington.

There’s no doubt in his mind that the soldiers are talking about Agent Washington, Recovery One, the asshole in gray and yellow that stole Delta from him. If Wash is here… then he’s one step closer to Delta.

All thoughts of the job flee from York’s head, his grip tightening on his handgun. Wash is somewhere nearby, he can almost fucking _taste_ it. He eases forward, trying to watch all sides at once, hoping that he’s quick enough between patrols.

The closer he comes to the building, the louder his heart pounds in his temples. It’s adrenaline and he knows it, pure energy pumping through his veins, heightening every sense, putting everything on a hair-trigger. York swallows it, internalizes it, and eases around the next corner.

Pure instinct shoves his fist in front of him, pure instinct puts his gun under the chin of the gray and yellow helmet, his finger on the trigger but not squeezing. His other hand grips an armored wrist, points the assault rifle upwards and away from harming him. “Don’t make a sound.” He commands, easing off the trigger when the soldier complies. “Disarm.” He pulls back with his gun still pointed at the armored individual, watches as they slowly drop their weapons.

“Tell me your name.” He knows, he knows who this is, he recognizes the fucking highway pattern of the armor, yellow and gray, no wonder cars hate Wash.

“My name is Agent Washington.” He answers mechanically and the instinct inside York cracks, a searing agony across his mind to hear the voice of the man who stole Delta from him.

“You bastard!” He shouts, jamming his gun into the underside of Wash’s helmet again, finger once more itching for the trigger. “You took him from me and you–you gave him to South!”

Even without being able to see Wash’s face, he can feel the comprehension. “York?” Wash swallows audibly, keeps his hands up at his sides. “York, is this… is this about Delta? You… you don’t know what happened, do you?”

Another lance of pain bolts thought his head, something about Wash’s tone, Wash’s words. “Delta, observe him for indicators of lying.” He whispers, taking a slow step back, keeping his gun and his gaze on Wash. “Tell me what happened, then, Agent Washington… or should I say Recovery One? Tell me what you did to my AI.”

He hears Wash slowly inhale and exhale over the radio, and when the former Freelancer begins to spin out his tale, the job in Recovery, York’s supposed death, North and South and the Meta… The EMP at the storage facility–

He stops listening, well aware of just what Wash has admitted to. His handgun raises slowly to point at Wash’s faceplate, distantly aware of the way the other man’s words have trailed off. “I guess…” York swallows, buries his anger and his grief, keeps his tone cold and professional, “that means that now I’m after revenge.”

There’s a long, slow exhale from Wash, armor visibly relaxing as if accepting death. York’s finger hesitates on the trigger, his hand shaking… and for the first time in too long, that almost monotonously logical voice pops up in his mind.

His gun lowers to the ground, his gaze dropping as he listens, as he understands what Delta is telling him. “Yeah…” York breathes out, looking to Wash again. “Killing you won’t bring Delta back… he’s right, you know. Revenge is illogical.”

“York, I–”

York’s fist slamming into Wash’s less-protected stomach cuts off his words, the punch followed by another and another. Hot tears burn his cheeks under his helmet, his mouth moving and words spilling forth almost without thought. “You killed my best friend, you _bastard_ , you murdered him and maybe killing you won’t bring him back, but beating the shit out of you is one step towards making me feel better! Fuck you, Wash, nothing bad has ever happened _to_ you, but bad things sure as shit happen _around_ you don’t they? Delta was the last piece of my life I had left and you decided to murder him in cold blood, you sick fucking _bastard_!” His punches have become little more than swats, his words choked almost to incoherency with the force of his rage, his grief, his loss.

“I lost Carolina…” He sobs out, both fists hitting Wash’s unresisting chest. “I lost her and… and Delta was all I had left. How could you? How could you just kill him? He never did anything wrong, he wasn’t like Sigma or Omega or… or fucking Epsilon. He was _good_.” His hands reach up almost beyond his will, grasp Wash’s helmet and trigger the release, pull it off violently enough that the other man winces. York throws the helmet aside, yanks his own over his head and drops it at his feet. “Look me in the fucking eye and try to tell me that this isn’t your fault, you asshole!”

“York…” Wash tries, unsure, his words faltering off in his throat before they even begin. There’s nothing to say and York knows that he knows it, knows that there’s nothing he could possibly say to make up for it. It’s written all over his pale, tired face, in every line and gray hair just how right York is, how much Wash deserves a fate worse than death for what he’s done.

Footsteps behind him and York again raises his handgun, whirls around to face the interloper. He barely registers the light blue armor to the left, all attention focused on the green hologram that stands before him.

“Agent York.” The voice speaks and he swallows, tries to reconcile the world that suddenly makes no sense to him. Wash said Delta was gone, destroyed in the EMP. “Please calm down, Agent York. There is no reason to blame Agent Washington for what has happened. Destroying the AI Fragments collected by the being known as the Meta was the logical choice.”

“Delta…” He whispers, slowly lowering his handgun, taking a step forward.

“York.” This voice is hauntingly familiar, too, a voice he swore was lost to him forever.

It’s Carolina.

He jerks into the reality of the situation, bends and lifts his helmet, switches his handgun for his assault rifle. For one moment as he rights himself they make eye contact through her visor. Time seems to stop as she looks into the familiar face, before an equally familiar helmet covers it.

“York…” Carolina whispers, reaching a hand towards him slowly, unsure.

“Not anymore,” he answers back as he hefts his assault rifle, points it towards her, “you can call me Foxtrot now… and hand over your AI.” She has Delta, somewhere along the line of lies Wash has told him ( _the Meta was probably another fabrication, an excuse to kill Maine_ ), Carolina has his AI… and he’s going to take him back.

The hologram flickers, turns blue and looks around as if in confusion. “What the–”

Not Delta, he realizes. A lie, a fucking lie to distract him. With a wordless scream, York centers his aim on the hologram, pulls the trigger all the way down and drowns out his own voice, his own thoughts under the automatic fire. From this close he doesn’t worry about aim compensation, he just tries to destroy the last lie he ever wants to be told.

The movement to his left doesn’t register until after his clip runs dry, until Carolina’s arms around him and her words over the radio slowly overcome the kick and click of the dry-firing rifle in his hands. His rifle is pressed to her stomach, miming death against her with every click. But it’s not like he can kill a ghost, which she must be.

 _This must be what it’s like to be crazy…_ He realizes, slowly easing his finger off the trigger, inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly. He remembers Delta’s methods for remaining calm in panic, remembers _everything_ about Delta. Every little nuance the green-tinted AI had, every annoyance and quirk and want and need and fear.

Everything.

“York, it’s going to be okay… We’ll get you help,” Carolina is still trying, is still running her armored hands up and down his back. Wash has slipped away, York realizes, survived like a cockroach once more. On the off chance he’s getting back-up, though, the former Freelancer decides that it’s best to make a hasty exit. “You can trust me, York.”

He pulls away and moves the rifle to his back, switches to his pistol–still loaded and ready. Slowly centers it on Carolina’s helmet as he backs away. “Maybe… but you can’t trust me.” Everything else he loves is dead, all it will take is one twitch of his finger to finish the job, to let Carolina rest easy like ghosts are supposed to.

Instead he turns and flees.

Maybe he wasn’t meant to be alive this long. Maybe this living hell is his punishment for pretending not to be home when Death came knocking.

 _Illogical, York_.


End file.
